When I discovered that Xtra Normal had Bill and Hillary animated characters, I just knew I had to make this video, in which Bill plots Hillary's primary challenge to Obama to help Bill get back to the White House. ("It helps me with the chicks.")
Mild Content Warning
Also: The accents for the voices aren't right; they had no "modified Arkansas" accent. So I apologize for that. But if the content isn't accurate, I'll give you your money back.
UPDATE: For those of you who don't have the patience to sit through 3-1/2 minutes of Oscar Wilde-level dialog, here's a link to the full text of the video.
November 3, 2010
October 10, 2010
The Pillage Idiot Election Night Bingo Game
..
With a huge midterm election barely three weeks away, emails have been pouring in from my fans, offering me a variety of personal enhancement remedies and asking me to provide my usual mature outlook on the election. I am more than happy to oblige.
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(Click to enlarge)
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UPDATE (10/11): Hmmm. I dropped "avalanche" from the second-to-last draft of the bingo game. NY Times: Soros: I Can't Stop a Republican "Avalanche"
With a huge midterm election barely three weeks away, emails have been pouring in from my fans, offering me a variety of personal enhancement remedies and asking me to provide my usual mature outlook on the election. I am more than happy to oblige.
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UPDATE (10/11): Hmmm. I dropped "avalanche" from the second-to-last draft of the bingo game. NY Times: Soros: I Can't Stop a Republican "Avalanche"
October 4, 2010
Riding in heels
You aren't required to wear spandex when you ride a bike. There's really no law that says you must. You also aren't required to wear bike shoes. I've been seeing guys in suits riding their bicycles in Washington, and there are women in all sorts of get-ups.
This is apparently a trend in New York, too, where the women who ride are now dressing to kill.
Ha, ha. No, I'm serious. In New York, some women are "infusing what used to be an athletic, or purely practical, pursuit with eye-catching glamour and sex appeal." Consider Topaz Page-Green, which is apparently someone's real name:
And speaking of safety, it's apparently no longer cool or chic or hip to wear a helmet: "other times she coasts to appointments, sans helmet, in a blazer and fresh-pressed jeans." Why? It can't be the sweat -- that's cool, chic, and hip: "'I get sweaty a little, but it doesn’t bother me,' she said. Her bike, after all, is a stylish appendage, 'a kind of rustic enhancement,' she said."
I suspect that this is all a pose. I imagine that a helmet would ruin that $200 hairstyle job. And who would whistle at a woman in a helmet?
And the article quotes one bike-blogger, who's not so keen on the whole idea.
UPDATE: Not covered in the article: Is it even remotely possible for these women to relieve themselves while on the bike?
This is apparently a trend in New York, too, where the women who ride are now dressing to kill.
Ha, ha. No, I'm serious. In New York, some women are "infusing what used to be an athletic, or purely practical, pursuit with eye-catching glamour and sex appeal." Consider Topaz Page-Green, which is apparently someone's real name:
She is one in an increasingly visible band of chic New Yorkers whooshing along the green-painted bike lanes that have proliferated in Manhattan, from the Brooklyn Bridge to the Hudson and from TriBeCa to Harlem, clutching BlackBerrys and clad not in spandex but in fluttery skirts, capes and kitten heels.Ms. TPG is nothing if not stylish: "She wore, of all things, a scarlet dress with a slinky 1920s feel. 'It was to the ankles,' she recalled. 'I had to hoist it up.'" This, of course, is utterly foolish; when I ride, my dress never goes below my calf. Safety is important, you know.
Roadways are the new runways for these style-obsessed cyclists, their bikes no mere conveyance but a racy adjunct to their look. More than a few are infusing what used to be an athletic, or purely practical, pursuit with eye-catching glamour and sex appeal. Their style, a modish amalgam of fashion and function, is documented on blogs and emulated by like-minded sisters on wheels. Their enthusiasm is fueling an uptick in business among independent merchants.
And speaking of safety, it's apparently no longer cool or chic or hip to wear a helmet: "other times she coasts to appointments, sans helmet, in a blazer and fresh-pressed jeans." Why? It can't be the sweat -- that's cool, chic, and hip: "'I get sweaty a little, but it doesn’t bother me,' she said. Her bike, after all, is a stylish appendage, 'a kind of rustic enhancement,' she said."
I suspect that this is all a pose. I imagine that a helmet would ruin that $200 hairstyle job. And who would whistle at a woman in a helmet?
And the article quotes one bike-blogger, who's not so keen on the whole idea.
Not everyone is thrilled. Ross Autry, a blogger in Birmingham, Ala., noted in an e-mail that multitasking bicyclists are too self-consciously hip for his taste and, what’s worse, may pose a hazard. "Fixing your makeup or sending a text message could have catastrophic results," he said. To say nothing of going without a helmet.But do note: Mr. Autry is from ALABAMA, and not a hip neighborhood of Brooklyn. What could he possibly understand?
UPDATE: Not covered in the article: Is it even remotely possible for these women to relieve themselves while on the bike?
September 16, 2010
Crime wave
"A curious phenomenon has emerged at the intersection of fashion, sports and crime: dozens of men and women who have robbed, beaten, stabbed and shot at their fellow New Yorkers have done so while wearing Yankees caps or clothing."
New York Times, Sept. 16, 2010
New York Times, Sept. 16, 2010
July 6, 2010
On the fly
WARNING: This post is rated Code Orange (Puerile) on the Pillage Idiot Advisory System because it discusses certain bodily functions in a highly immature manner. Read it at your own risk.
**************************************************************
And by "do it" I mean, relieve himself without losing time from his full day of crazy riding.
I'm going to give you the answer, but it will take a little while. Grab a beer and lift up your footrest.
Some of you might be too young to remember this, but in 1995, congressional Republicans and President Clinton got into a standoff over spending. The government ran out of money and had to be shutdown. The impasse lasted for three weeks until -- and this will surprise you -- the Republicans caved. You've heard the expression, Don't bring a knife to a gun fight? Well, the Republicans typically show up at a gun fight with a line-drawing of a gun on note paper. I was pretty bitter about this at the time. I was probably the only employee of the federal government who actually supported the shutdown, and I was even willing to forego salary to get things right. Then Newt Gingrich made a fool of himself and Bob Dole caved. And I realize this is a perverse way of looking at the situation, but to me, they added insult to injury by eventually paying us for our forced time off. (I ended up donating a chunk of my unearned salary to charity.)
So why am I talking about this? One of the successful strategies used by Clinton during this standoff was the so-called Washington Monument strategy. In government, when you're told to tighten your belt, you force the appropriators to back down by inconveniencing the public, deliberately closing unimportant but very public functions of the government. Clinton either closed or threatened to close (I forget now, 15 years later) the national parks, including the Washington Monument, thereby inconveniencing visitors to Washington and making more of a splash than if he'd quietly chosen to cut funding to all the useless federal agencies we have in Washington.
Last month, we saw the Washington Monument strategy in play in Montgomery County, Maryland, where I live. Faced with budget shortfalls, the County's Parks Department announced it would have to remove 80 public toilets from the public parks unless -- and I highly commend this approach to the United Jewish Appeal/Federation -- it could find donors to endow the porta-potties in the parks:
But even better than that, maybe we could get some porta-potties sponsored by Vicks VapoRub. The signs would say "Number One Cold Remedy." And while we're being really immature about it, why not Avis? "Number Two and Trying Harder." It wouldn't be long before we had political pissing matches in which candidates sponsored porta-potties in the names of their opponents. For instance, Bob Ehrlich: "This is where Gov. O'Malley's policies have taken Maryland." Barack Obama: "We inherited this $#!% from the previous administration." The possibilities are almost endless.
Sadly, the sponsorship program is, er, stalling. County residents don't seem to be able to see the humor in Parks Department's dire situation. But never fear, because the County has backed off:
As for ordinary bicyclists, like me, there really is less need for public restrooms than you would think. When you ride a bicycle and frequently re-hydrate yourself, you still usually end up on the negative side of the fluids ledger. Not much need for the potty. And when you do hear nature's call, porta-potties are usually not the answer. Let me explain.
Along Beach Drive in upper northwest Washington, where I often do Sunday rides, there are actually permanent buildings with rest rooms, mostly for picnickers, but also for the bicyclists. Public rest rooms like that are rare, but they're great, because you can actually bring your bike inside with you. I mean, think about it. A bike dude goes into a porta-potty and leaves his bike outside, and by the time he's taken care of business, some punk kid has jacked his bike and is already halfway across Indiana.
But what does happen if there's no perma-potty and no porta-potty? John Dingell, back in his pre-Newt heyday in the 1980s used to torture witnesses by refusing to take any breaks. He'd make witnesses squirm, because they couldn't leave the hearing room, while he personally had a catheter-like device hidden behind the chairman's desk. I would have thought that professional riders would use similar devices. Until I remembered that for professional bicyclists every ounce is precious.
To be candid, I actually never thought at all about what professional riders do with their bodily functions until I read a column by the "Bike Snob," called "Don't be a Pro," where the writer criticizes bike enthusiasts who try to act like the pros, by "maintaining a studied air of mild discomfort at all times while on your bike, wearing embrocation instead of tights and successfully urinating while riding." Say what? Yeah, that. And he closes the column with this advice: "There's nothing pro about urinating while riding if you have the luxury of getting off the bike. It's cooler to stop and smell the roses—or relieve yourself on them." This process should be referred to, in Obama-esque terminology, as the "public option."
Oddly, there's been a veritable rash of columns about relieving oneself. In the current issue of Bicycling Magazine, some columnist who throws the initials "J.D." after his name explains how to take a leak or worse without getting arrested. It's come to that.
Now that I've lost the one or two readers who waded deep into this sea of words, and I seem to have lost myself as well, I'd better get rapidly to the point. The point is that professional riders sometimes take potty breaks en masse and sometimes -- cover your eyes -- do it on the fly. Not through the fly -- bike shorts don't have 'em -- but on the fly. (I understand, though, that this is not permitted in American bike races.)
Not being a pro, I have no idea how to accomplish this feat while riding, even after reading the description in these two posts, which you should definitely read if you've made it this far. I certainly don't intend to try it.
I'm going to leave you with this: The issue is very important to the pros, so important that there's even etiquette about it. When the other guys have stopped by the side of the road, you don't try to take advantage by "attacking" -- by riding hard to gain distance from the pack. This will explain what happens if you do.
And finally, if you want WAY too much information from a pro about a "restroom" break that went awry, you can watch this video, which, to make matters worse, auto-starts when you click on the link. Turn down your speakers, and don't say I didn't warn you.
**************************************************************
So right now, old Lance Armstrong is out there riding the Tour de France, and the question on everyone's mind is: How the heck does he do it?
I'm going to give you the answer, but it will take a little while. Grab a beer and lift up your footrest.
Some of you might be too young to remember this, but in 1995, congressional Republicans and President Clinton got into a standoff over spending. The government ran out of money and had to be shutdown. The impasse lasted for three weeks until -- and this will surprise you -- the Republicans caved. You've heard the expression, Don't bring a knife to a gun fight? Well, the Republicans typically show up at a gun fight with a line-drawing of a gun on note paper. I was pretty bitter about this at the time. I was probably the only employee of the federal government who actually supported the shutdown, and I was even willing to forego salary to get things right. Then Newt Gingrich made a fool of himself and Bob Dole caved. And I realize this is a perverse way of looking at the situation, but to me, they added insult to injury by eventually paying us for our forced time off. (I ended up donating a chunk of my unearned salary to charity.)
So why am I talking about this? One of the successful strategies used by Clinton during this standoff was the so-called Washington Monument strategy. In government, when you're told to tighten your belt, you force the appropriators to back down by inconveniencing the public, deliberately closing unimportant but very public functions of the government. Clinton either closed or threatened to close (I forget now, 15 years later) the national parks, including the Washington Monument, thereby inconveniencing visitors to Washington and making more of a splash than if he'd quietly chosen to cut funding to all the useless federal agencies we have in Washington.
Last month, we saw the Washington Monument strategy in play in Montgomery County, Maryland, where I live. Faced with budget shortfalls, the County's Parks Department announced it would have to remove 80 public toilets from the public parks unless -- and I highly commend this approach to the United Jewish Appeal/Federation -- it could find donors to endow the porta-potties in the parks:
Montgomery County's parks department is moving ahead with plans to seek private donors to endow portable toilets in the county's public parks, complete with a laminated plaque identifying the sponsor.The Washington Monument strategy is supposed to be subtle. It should appear to be done reluctantly, after all other options have failed. But sometimes, it's too blatant, and people call you on it.
Parks chief Mary Bradford said Friday that she needs about $150,000 annually to keep the toilets, or about $65 a month per toilet, which covers rental, maintenance and other costs. Otherwise, when the fiscal year begins Thursday, the agency will begin to jettison 80 portable toilets. Some parks, which have permanent restrooms, will not be affected.
In Congress, proposing the elimination of something such as portable toilets is referred to as the "Washington Monument" strategy, meaning budget cutters outline politically unpopular reductions, and politicians are embarrassed into restoring the money.And by the way, in case you think I'm kidding about the sponsorships, take a look at the official website of the Parks Department. Believe me, it would almost be worth $65 a month to sponsor a Pillage Idiot Porta-Potty.
But Bradford said that's not her plan.
"This is not a ploy," she said.
But even better than that, maybe we could get some porta-potties sponsored by Vicks VapoRub. The signs would say "Number One Cold Remedy." And while we're being really immature about it, why not Avis? "Number Two and Trying Harder." It wouldn't be long before we had political pissing matches in which candidates sponsored porta-potties in the names of their opponents. For instance, Bob Ehrlich: "This is where Gov. O'Malley's policies have taken Maryland." Barack Obama: "We inherited this $#!% from the previous administration." The possibilities are almost endless.
Sadly, the sponsorship program is, er, stalling. County residents don't seem to be able to see the humor in Parks Department's dire situation. But never fear, because the County has backed off:
There will be a place to answer the call of nature in Montgomery County's parks this holiday weekend. The parks department has scuttled -- for now -- a cost-cutting plan to withdraw more than 100 portable toilets.Humor aside, I really don't understand the need for porta-potties in the county parks. Large segments of the Montgomery County demographic are from some rinky-dink country that doesn't even have indoor plumbing, let alone the custom of not relieving oneself in public areas. We've actually tried hard to assimilate our Canadians, but it's a work in progress.
As for ordinary bicyclists, like me, there really is less need for public restrooms than you would think. When you ride a bicycle and frequently re-hydrate yourself, you still usually end up on the negative side of the fluids ledger. Not much need for the potty. And when you do hear nature's call, porta-potties are usually not the answer. Let me explain.
Along Beach Drive in upper northwest Washington, where I often do Sunday rides, there are actually permanent buildings with rest rooms, mostly for picnickers, but also for the bicyclists. Public rest rooms like that are rare, but they're great, because you can actually bring your bike inside with you. I mean, think about it. A bike dude goes into a porta-potty and leaves his bike outside, and by the time he's taken care of business, some punk kid has jacked his bike and is already halfway across Indiana.
But what does happen if there's no perma-potty and no porta-potty? John Dingell, back in his pre-Newt heyday in the 1980s used to torture witnesses by refusing to take any breaks. He'd make witnesses squirm, because they couldn't leave the hearing room, while he personally had a catheter-like device hidden behind the chairman's desk. I would have thought that professional riders would use similar devices. Until I remembered that for professional bicyclists every ounce is precious.
To be candid, I actually never thought at all about what professional riders do with their bodily functions until I read a column by the "Bike Snob," called "Don't be a Pro," where the writer criticizes bike enthusiasts who try to act like the pros, by "maintaining a studied air of mild discomfort at all times while on your bike, wearing embrocation instead of tights and successfully urinating while riding." Say what? Yeah, that. And he closes the column with this advice: "There's nothing pro about urinating while riding if you have the luxury of getting off the bike. It's cooler to stop and smell the roses—or relieve yourself on them." This process should be referred to, in Obama-esque terminology, as the "public option."
Oddly, there's been a veritable rash of columns about relieving oneself. In the current issue of Bicycling Magazine, some columnist who throws the initials "J.D." after his name explains how to take a leak or worse without getting arrested. It's come to that.
Now that I've lost the one or two readers who waded deep into this sea of words, and I seem to have lost myself as well, I'd better get rapidly to the point. The point is that professional riders sometimes take potty breaks en masse and sometimes -- cover your eyes -- do it on the fly. Not through the fly -- bike shorts don't have 'em -- but on the fly. (I understand, though, that this is not permitted in American bike races.)
Not being a pro, I have no idea how to accomplish this feat while riding, even after reading the description in these two posts, which you should definitely read if you've made it this far. I certainly don't intend to try it.
I'm going to leave you with this: The issue is very important to the pros, so important that there's even etiquette about it. When the other guys have stopped by the side of the road, you don't try to take advantage by "attacking" -- by riding hard to gain distance from the pack. This will explain what happens if you do.
And finally, if you want WAY too much information from a pro about a "restroom" break that went awry, you can watch this video, which, to make matters worse, auto-starts when you click on the link. Turn down your speakers, and don't say I didn't warn you.
June 21, 2010
Marital bliss
June is the month for weddings, and so, I bring you an enormous . . . er, question of etiquette:
Suppose you're a bride who's getting married and, to save some money, you delegated to your sister-in-law-to-be the job of baking the wedding cake. And then, in classic Pillage Idiot fashion, she showed up on the wedding day with a cake in the shape of a three-foot tall penis. Replete with statuettes of the bride and groom, strategically placed on the cake.
Your first assignment: What should you, the bride, do?
A. Break down into an uncontrollable sob.
B. Call off the wedding.
C. Smash the three-foot penis into your SILTB's hideous little face.
D. Call up Miss Manners to ask for her advice.
If you chose D., I think I may be able to help you out, because if this column that Miss Manners published a couple of weeks ago (second item) is any indication, Miss Manners would advise you to act with considerable tact, even under these extremely trying circumstances:
Not so fast, you say. The question Miss Manners was answering had nothing to do with a wedding; it had to do with a dinner party for a 57th birthday. And all of us have had three-foot penii served to us at birthday parties, haven't we? So what would you do if this cake arrived at your wedding?
In an effort to answer this etiquette question, I decided to check out Sunday's New York Times wedding pages for some help. There, I found an announcement of a wedding between an assistant editor of the New Yorker and a fellow New Yorker staffer. His last name is "Peed," and he is, so far as I can tell, no relation to the Cincinnati Reds' rookie pitcher Mike Leake. Had I been in the bride's position, I surely would have kept my own name. She apparently will not. Sadly, there was no word in the announcement about the shape of their wedding cake.
And speaking of weddings, here's your next assignment. I want you to imagine that the executive director of the American Civil Liberties Union of New Jersey has just gotten married. Then, I want you to imagine what the courtship, engagement, and wedding were like. You are required to engage in the most grotesque stereotyping of ACLU lefties you can dream up in that demented mind of yours.
And now, I'm going to complete my own assignment.
OK, now where was I?
Oh, yeah, a wedding cake in the shape of a three-foot penis. That's where I usually am. Anyway, in case you think such a thing is not possible, I leave you with this photo, which comes from uglyweddingcake.com.
I urge you to click over there, because if you do, you'll find this photo on the homepage, with the following note from the unhappy bride:
Finally, I have my answer to the enormous etiquette question: C. You smash the three-foot penis into your SILTB's hideous little face. After first taking multiple photos of the cake. For posterity.
Suppose you're a bride who's getting married and, to save some money, you delegated to your sister-in-law-to-be the job of baking the wedding cake. And then, in classic Pillage Idiot fashion, she showed up on the wedding day with a cake in the shape of a three-foot tall penis. Replete with statuettes of the bride and groom, strategically placed on the cake.
Your first assignment: What should you, the bride, do?
A. Break down into an uncontrollable sob.
B. Call off the wedding.
C. Smash the three-foot penis into your SILTB's hideous little face.
D. Call up Miss Manners to ask for her advice.
If you chose D., I think I may be able to help you out, because if this column that Miss Manners published a couple of weeks ago (second item) is any indication, Miss Manners would advise you to act with considerable tact, even under these extremely trying circumstances:
Say "Thank you," whisk it into the kitchen, slice it in small pieces and serve it on a platter. Just please don't describe the slicing to Miss Manners.Bring your own mohel.
Not so fast, you say. The question Miss Manners was answering had nothing to do with a wedding; it had to do with a dinner party for a 57th birthday. And all of us have had three-foot penii served to us at birthday parties, haven't we? So what would you do if this cake arrived at your wedding?
In an effort to answer this etiquette question, I decided to check out Sunday's New York Times wedding pages for some help. There, I found an announcement of a wedding between an assistant editor of the New Yorker and a fellow New Yorker staffer. His last name is "Peed," and he is, so far as I can tell, no relation to the Cincinnati Reds' rookie pitcher Mike Leake. Had I been in the bride's position, I surely would have kept my own name. She apparently will not. Sadly, there was no word in the announcement about the shape of their wedding cake.
And speaking of weddings, here's your next assignment. I want you to imagine that the executive director of the American Civil Liberties Union of New Jersey has just gotten married. Then, I want you to imagine what the courtship, engagement, and wedding were like. You are required to engage in the most grotesque stereotyping of ACLU lefties you can dream up in that demented mind of yours.
And now, I'm going to complete my own assignment.
- She would live in a grungy area of Newark. CHECK! "'I try to keep myself alert by living among people who are evidence of the need for social change,' she said."
- Her workplace would be in an equally grungy area of town, and she'd come up with a politically correct justification for her husband to pick her up after dark. CHECK! "'When it gets dark he comes and picks me up from work,' she said. 'He understands that by taking care of me, he’s taking care of our dreams for social change.'"
- The groom would be a veteran and peace activist. CHECK! "She met Michael T. McPhearson in October 1997 in a St. Louis bar where a forum was being held about police misconduct. Mr. McPhearson, a divorced Gulf War veteran turned peace activist, spoke out often in his friendly yet fierce way."
- She would naturally have asked him out first. CHECK! "A few days later, he drove his red convertible over to her office to continue the conversation. Impressed by his intense eyes and opinions, she asked him out."
- Their dates would involve dreary recitations of left-wing pieties. CHECK! "On many of their dates they examined movies, advertising and songs together, searching for racist messages 'hidden like camouflaged lizards in the leaves,' Ms. Jacobs said."
- The hot and heavy stuff would also involve left-wing pieties. CHECK! "Soon, they were spending weekends rallying, picketing, studying the Constitution, blogging and jogging. Like her, he always stopped to speak at length with homeless people."
- He would know how to please the feminists. CHECK! "'He shows good manners to everyone,' Ms. Jacobs said. 'He puts toilet seats down, but not people.'"
- During their time living together, they would try to re-create the Age of Aquarius. CHECK! "They shared a condominium in Montclair, N.J., and filled it with books, rock music and fellow activists, who sometimes camped out in the living room."
- He of course would not give her a patriarchal engagement ring. CHECK! "He proposed to Ms. Jacobs in their kitchen — without a ring. 'I don’t think Michael has ever given me a piece of jewelry other than some peace signs, which he's big on,' she said. 'Having a piece of jewelry on my body in no way relates to our love or our bond.'"
- The clergyman who performed the wedding ceremony would himself be a left-wing activist. CHECK! "Along with several of the guests, the officiant, the Rev. Osagyefo Uhuru Sekou, a minister of the United Church of Christ, has been arrested more than once for civil disobedience, and sometimes takes homeless people into his home."
- The ceremony, which naturally would have to be outdoors near the Statue of Liberty, would call for the guests and clergyman to step inside a circle with the bride, groom, and clergyman to offer marital wisdom, and the most notable wisdom would involve sex. CHECK! "During the ceremony, one guest after another stepped into the middle of the circle to share some marital wisdom. Mr. Sekou offered this advice on making marriage work: 'Love is a choice, so choose to love. Never go to sleep angry. It makes morning hard. And when in doubt, have sex.'"
- The couple would eschew a formal honeymoon, preferring take their own separate trips. CHECK! "A few days later, the bridegroom took off on his motorcycle for a two-week road trip — a kind of solo honeymoon. 'It just makes our relationship so much better to have our own adventures,' the bride said."
OK, now where was I?
Oh, yeah, a wedding cake in the shape of a three-foot penis. That's where I usually am. Anyway, in case you think such a thing is not possible, I leave you with this photo, which comes from uglyweddingcake.com.
I urge you to click over there, because if you do, you'll find this photo on the homepage, with the following note from the unhappy bride:
I win for ugliest cake! My wedding was recent, and I asked for a cake of a beautiful sand castle with chocolate seashells. I even sent a picture of a cake that I wanted. THIS is what I get: a giant p____ cake. The cake was made with a cardboard paper towel holder and he smashed the cake around it. Everyone laughed when they saw it, and I was totally humiliated. WHAT A JOKE!!And here's another shot of it:
-Erin B, Ventura CA
Finally, I have my answer to the enormous etiquette question: C. You smash the three-foot penis into your SILTB's hideous little face. After first taking multiple photos of the cake. For posterity.
March 13, 2010
Joe Biden works his magic in the Middle East
For more photo comics, check the links at Pillage Idiot.
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February 23, 2010
Attila: The Opera
It's not about you. It's about me.
And it's also about opera. Riccardo Muti is going to direct the Met in an Italian opera called "Attila." Frankly, I've never even heard of this opera, although I've heard of the composer, some paisano named Joe Green. The Times isn't very helpful when it comes to actually describing the opera; the article spends more time on personality (Muti, apparently, is one) than on music. All we learn about the opera from the Times is that "Roman general Ezio plots with Attila to divide up the empire between them, Ezio sings, 'Avrai tu l'universo, resti l'Italia a me!' 'You can have the universe, leave Italy for me!'"
Based on that one line about the universe, I'm guessing that the opera treats Attila as sort of the Darth Vader of the Fifth Century. OK, so maybe I'm being a little unfair to D-Vade, who surely would not have foregone Italy. But you see what I mean.
Since the article leaves most of the remainder of the opera "Attila" to my own feverish imagination, I decided I'm going to make up the plot right now. It's all about me.
* * * * *
Here is a short summary of the opera, as I conceive it:
Act I.
When the curtain rises, a shepherd and his sheep are seen on the hillside of what is now northern Italy. The sheep sing "Pasta e fagioli," a song in which they complain of their bean-laden diet, which they fear will lead to increased methane emissions and possibly cause the Medieval Warm Period in a few centuries.
In the next scene, the sheep are seated in the village wine bar, where they are being served by several extremely robust women in odd costumes featuring helmets and breastplates, who sing loudly about something, but we're not sure exactly what.
In a darkened corner of the wine bar, lit only with a single red spotlight, the village mayor, Barachi, is singing marcatissimo to his mother on his cell phone. In his aria "Ma, la mamma" ("But Ma!"), Barachi tries to explain to his mother that cell phones won't even be invented for another 1500 years.
We move to the village square, where Barachi's wife, Michaela, warns the villagers that Attila and his obese Huns have been sighted leaving the wurst and sauerkraut restaurant near Exit 14B-flat on the Eselbahn. It is only a short trip from there to the village. She urges the local militia members to gird their loins for battle. The militia members reply that they no longer have any loins, having been forced to sell them as a result of bad real estate deals. Singing "Il predecessore" ("The predecessor"), they blame the former mayor, nicknamed "Il Cespulio" ("The Bush").
As the militia members sing the well known chorus "Perché dovrei preoccuparmi" (roughly, "What, me worry?"), Attila and his Huns ride into town on their bicycles, stark naked except for loincloths. Attila, who by the way is a baritone, and not some typical, effeminate tenor, orders his men to burn down the wine bar. Barachi and the robust women escape, but, sadly, the sheep are roasted in the fire. One hears the sheep singing "Fa caldo qui dentro" ("It's hot in here"). Attila and Barachi and the entire village close Act I with a raucous banquet of roast lamb, singing the finale "O, il gusto di montone" ("Oh, the taste of mutton").
Act II.
The curtain rises as Attila awakens from a lamb-induced slumber. He belches. Then he sings the "pussy cat" aria, so named because in the aria Attila calls Roman general Ezio a pussy (cat) for offering Attila the universe if Ezio can just have Italy ("Avrai tu l'universo, resti l'Italia a me"). Attila mocks, "Chi diavolo vuole l'Italia? La pizza succhia uova." ("Who the hell wants Italy? The pizza sucks eggs.").
In the next scene, the village maidens appear in the village square and ponder, in a complex four-part contrapuntal chorus, why the savage yet very attractive Huns have not been molesting them: "Forse abbiamo bisogno di dimostrare più scissione" ("Perhaps we need to show more cleavage"). The Huns appear and explain the reason. Riding a bicycle while wearing only a loincloth has wreaked havoc on their private parts: "I pericoli del perineo" ("The perils of perineum"). Attila enters. He catches the eye of the fairest of the maidens and sings to her, "Siete deliziose" ("You are delectable" -- often translated as "I would enjoy you as my next meal"). Meanwhile, Barachi and Michaela join the maidens and Huns and reminisce about their own courtship: "Appuntamento al buio" ("Blind date").
There follows a reprise of Pasta e fagioli, this time sung by the militia members, with appropriate sound effects. They laugh about the effect of methane emissions on global warming in a choral piece entitled "La mazza da hockey" ("The hockey stick"). Trying to impress the fairest maiden with his comparative sophistication, Attila sings "Giovanile!" ("Juvenile!").
In the opera's finale, Attila marries the fairest maiden in a Hun-like ceremony. A festive meal is prepared: deep-fried turkey, using a frozen bird, despite a stern warning from the Underwriters Laboratories. Needless to say, the fryer collapses, spilling super-heated oil onto the wooden platform and starting an enormous fire. All sing "Infiammato!" ("On fire!"). When Barachi frantically tries to line up the village militia to put out the fire, the militia members tell him they no longer have water, having been forced to sell it as a result of bad real estate deals. Attila and Mrs. Attila leave the village on his bicycle, Harley-style, with Mrs. Attila on back. Unlike the Hun, who is still clothed in a loincloth, Mrs. Attila wears something tasteful.
Everyone sings very loudly, for no particular reason, and the curtain falls.
And it's also about opera. Riccardo Muti is going to direct the Met in an Italian opera called "Attila." Frankly, I've never even heard of this opera, although I've heard of the composer, some paisano named Joe Green. The Times isn't very helpful when it comes to actually describing the opera; the article spends more time on personality (Muti, apparently, is one) than on music. All we learn about the opera from the Times is that "Roman general Ezio plots with Attila to divide up the empire between them, Ezio sings, 'Avrai tu l'universo, resti l'Italia a me!' 'You can have the universe, leave Italy for me!'"
Based on that one line about the universe, I'm guessing that the opera treats Attila as sort of the Darth Vader of the Fifth Century. OK, so maybe I'm being a little unfair to D-Vade, who surely would not have foregone Italy. But you see what I mean.
Since the article leaves most of the remainder of the opera "Attila" to my own feverish imagination, I decided I'm going to make up the plot right now. It's all about me.
Here is a short summary of the opera, as I conceive it:
Act I.
When the curtain rises, a shepherd and his sheep are seen on the hillside of what is now northern Italy. The sheep sing "Pasta e fagioli," a song in which they complain of their bean-laden diet, which they fear will lead to increased methane emissions and possibly cause the Medieval Warm Period in a few centuries.
In the next scene, the sheep are seated in the village wine bar, where they are being served by several extremely robust women in odd costumes featuring helmets and breastplates, who sing loudly about something, but we're not sure exactly what.
In a darkened corner of the wine bar, lit only with a single red spotlight, the village mayor, Barachi, is singing marcatissimo to his mother on his cell phone. In his aria "Ma, la mamma" ("But Ma!"), Barachi tries to explain to his mother that cell phones won't even be invented for another 1500 years.
We move to the village square, where Barachi's wife, Michaela, warns the villagers that Attila and his obese Huns have been sighted leaving the wurst and sauerkraut restaurant near Exit 14B-flat on the Eselbahn. It is only a short trip from there to the village. She urges the local militia members to gird their loins for battle. The militia members reply that they no longer have any loins, having been forced to sell them as a result of bad real estate deals. Singing "Il predecessore" ("The predecessor"), they blame the former mayor, nicknamed "Il Cespulio" ("The Bush").
As the militia members sing the well known chorus "Perché dovrei preoccuparmi" (roughly, "What, me worry?"), Attila and his Huns ride into town on their bicycles, stark naked except for loincloths. Attila, who by the way is a baritone, and not some typical, effeminate tenor, orders his men to burn down the wine bar. Barachi and the robust women escape, but, sadly, the sheep are roasted in the fire. One hears the sheep singing "Fa caldo qui dentro" ("It's hot in here"). Attila and Barachi and the entire village close Act I with a raucous banquet of roast lamb, singing the finale "O, il gusto di montone" ("Oh, the taste of mutton").
Act II.
The curtain rises as Attila awakens from a lamb-induced slumber. He belches. Then he sings the "pussy cat" aria, so named because in the aria Attila calls Roman general Ezio a pussy (cat) for offering Attila the universe if Ezio can just have Italy ("Avrai tu l'universo, resti l'Italia a me"). Attila mocks, "Chi diavolo vuole l'Italia? La pizza succhia uova." ("Who the hell wants Italy? The pizza sucks eggs.").
In the next scene, the village maidens appear in the village square and ponder, in a complex four-part contrapuntal chorus, why the savage yet very attractive Huns have not been molesting them: "Forse abbiamo bisogno di dimostrare più scissione" ("Perhaps we need to show more cleavage"). The Huns appear and explain the reason. Riding a bicycle while wearing only a loincloth has wreaked havoc on their private parts: "I pericoli del perineo" ("The perils of perineum"). Attila enters. He catches the eye of the fairest of the maidens and sings to her, "Siete deliziose" ("You are delectable" -- often translated as "I would enjoy you as my next meal"). Meanwhile, Barachi and Michaela join the maidens and Huns and reminisce about their own courtship: "Appuntamento al buio" ("Blind date").
There follows a reprise of Pasta e fagioli, this time sung by the militia members, with appropriate sound effects. They laugh about the effect of methane emissions on global warming in a choral piece entitled "La mazza da hockey" ("The hockey stick"). Trying to impress the fairest maiden with his comparative sophistication, Attila sings "Giovanile!" ("Juvenile!").
In the opera's finale, Attila marries the fairest maiden in a Hun-like ceremony. A festive meal is prepared: deep-fried turkey, using a frozen bird, despite a stern warning from the Underwriters Laboratories. Needless to say, the fryer collapses, spilling super-heated oil onto the wooden platform and starting an enormous fire. All sing "Infiammato!" ("On fire!"). When Barachi frantically tries to line up the village militia to put out the fire, the militia members tell him they no longer have water, having been forced to sell it as a result of bad real estate deals. Attila and Mrs. Attila leave the village on his bicycle, Harley-style, with Mrs. Attila on back. Unlike the Hun, who is still clothed in a loincloth, Mrs. Attila wears something tasteful.
Everyone sings very loudly, for no particular reason, and the curtain falls.
February 21, 2010
Al Haig dies, New York Times exhales
Holding one's breath for nearly 30 years is a feat that can be managed only by esteemed publications like the New York Times. With today's front-page obituary of Alexander Haig, the Times has finally exhaled.
If you read the obit, it's clear by paragraph 2 what I mean. In that paragraph, Tim Weiner notes that "Lyn Nofziger once said, that 'the third paragraph of his obit' would detail his conduct in the hours after President Reagan was shot, on March 30, 1981." Note well, the third paragraph.
OK, on to paragraph 3 of the Times obit:
Well, that little joke was worth waiting almost three decades for, wasn't it?
If you read the obit, it's clear by paragraph 2 what I mean. In that paragraph, Tim Weiner notes that "Lyn Nofziger once said, that 'the third paragraph of his obit' would detail his conduct in the hours after President Reagan was shot, on March 30, 1981." Note well, the third paragraph.
OK, on to paragraph 3 of the Times obit:
That day, Secretary of State Haig wrongly declared himself the acting president. “The helm is right here,” he told members of the Reagan cabinet in the White House Situation Room, “and that means right in this chair for now, constitutionally, until the vice president gets here.” His words were taped by Richard V. Allen, then the national security adviser.Phooooooo. (Exhale.)
Well, that little joke was worth waiting almost three decades for, wasn't it?
January 28, 2010
January 24, 2010
Barack Barbie speaks
Obama's recent comments on the middle east led me to think of Barbie. As always, click on the image to enlarge it.
From Politico:
From Politico:
The other area which I think is worth noting, is that the Middle East peace process has not moved forward. And I think it's fair to say for all our efforts at early engagement, is not where I want it to be.
Why is that? My sense of it is that Mitchell spent a number of months negotiating a settlement deal and saw some progress from the Israelis and kind of got blinded by that, because he didn't see that that it wasn't sufficient progress for the Palestinians.
I'll be honest with you. A: This is just really hard. Even for a guy like George Mitchell who helped bring about the peace in Northern Ireland.
January 10, 2010
The Pillage Idiot Guide to Offensive Statements by Public Officials
It's one thing for Barack Obama to grant absolution for an ally's dubious racial remark, but when Al Sharpton absolves the offender, you just know there are different standards at work.
The following chart really deserves a loop for Democrats who are running against Obama, and for foul-mouthed AM radio jerks, but I created this on software that I was completely unfamiliar with, and it was an evaluation copy, to boot. Maybe another time....
Click the image to enlarge it.
UPDATE: Thank you to Kathryn Jean Lopez at The Corner for the link.
UPDATE: Instapundit also links. Woohoo! Now I can quit blogging. Oh, wait, I already quit a year ago.
UPDATE: At the Volokh Conspiracy, which links to Blogger's URL for the enlarged image but doesn't link here as it should, the comments are pretty amusing, although I admit I don't really know what they're saying. I left a comment in my blog-name making fun of my own flowchart, but I guess it was lost in translation, judging from the response. The first paragraph is my comment.
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The following chart really deserves a loop for Democrats who are running against Obama, and for foul-mouthed AM radio jerks, but I created this on software that I was completely unfamiliar with, and it was an evaluation copy, to boot. Maybe another time....
UPDATE: Thank you to Kathryn Jean Lopez at The Corner for the link.
UPDATE: Instapundit also links. Woohoo! Now I can quit blogging. Oh, wait, I already quit a year ago.
UPDATE: At the Volokh Conspiracy, which links to Blogger's URL for the enlarged image but doesn't link here as it should, the comments are pretty amusing, although I admit I don't really know what they're saying. I left a comment in my blog-name making fun of my own flowchart, but I guess it was lost in translation, judging from the response. The first paragraph is my comment.
A. Zarkov says:Attila (Pillage Idiot): The guy who prepared this flowchart is a moron. He obviously didn’t even know how to use the software, and it just wasn’t funny.It’s supposed to satire, not a flow diagram to get coded. It’s doesn’t matter if it’s technically correct so long as it’s funny. Whether its’ funny or not is in the eye of the beholder.
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